What the Luck, Emma Lenford!

By Kari Lynn M

Alexa, how does one reverse a curse? Because Emma Lenford’s horrendously hapless luck has not improved since her last few brushes with the law enforcement of Wisconsin. Now, though, there’s an old guy in a hot tub and a possible pregnancy to deal with (though, please note, both are completely unrelated), among so many more misfortunes.

Emma Lenford is truly the unluckiest 17 year old on the planet. She keeps her sense of humor, though, through this series of seriously ill-fated situations. Her life is basically a sit-com where one traumatic thing after another befalls her, and it's all out of her control. She's constantly kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and even arrested for things she honestly didn't even do.

This second book in the series that keeps on giving will have you saying, literally, "Uh, what the luck?" because Emma's circumstances are even crazier than they ever were before. I mean, you thought getting thrown up on in the trunk of a kidnapper's SUV was bad? Try getting thrown around by an actual tornado or, better yet, thrown into performing an actual exorcism on a child that's actually trying to kill you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kari Lynn M
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463548424

Kari Lynn M

Hey there!My name is Kari, if you didn't guess already, and I'm a writer (surprise!).I also enjoy long walks on the beach and sipping on piña coladas.Just kidding!I'm really just a... small town girl, I guess you could say, with a semi-functioning laptop and a dream. A dream of becoming a 'real' author, that is. Which, actually, I'm not quite exactly sure how that is defined, so when and how I'll reach it, if I do at all, I don't really know.However, I'm working extremely hard on my writing these days. As in, like, EVERY day. Even after a long day of other mental and manual work (I'm also a college student, artist, and frequent nanny), I have to add at least something to whatever story I've currently got in the works, otherwise, I physically cannot sleep. But, I do love writing—I really do. And, apparently, it must have a thing for me, too.Now, really, y'all should get to reading more important things than an exhausted 20-some-year-old wishful author's bio. More important things like... the books she's actually written!Happy reading, all you homedogs.--Kari

Book preview

What the Luck, Emma Lenford!

Kari Lynn M.

Published by Kari Lynn M. at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 Kari Lynn M.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

The Shawskank Redemption

Hush Puppies

Road Trip… Again

Abort!

Viagra Falls

Department of Sober Vehicles

Nose Weed

Exor-pissed

Get a Grip

Blow Moms

Pain Retriever

The Damned Finale

Bonus Content

Other Books by Kari…

Connect with Kari!

Acknow… Author’s Notes

The Shawskank Redemption

Emma Lenford?

I glanced away from the fifty-gallon fish tank placed unsteadily on top of the wooden coffee table in the center of the room filled with nothing but a thin layer of sand underneath a scattered array of dirtied and, unfortunately, real human teeth, a small paper sign taped to the front with the script ‘Another one bites the dust’ scribbled on it, and then refocused my attention on the tall, skinny woman in neon pink scrubs who was currently standing in the open doorway on the left, holding a rosy clipboard, and, ironically enough, popping a bubble of gum in a very similar color.

That you? she went on to question, clicking the end of her pen into my direction.

I turned my head to the right and scanned every other one of the seven chairs in the small room, all vacant.

I guess so, I announced, and then glided my eyes down to the magazine in my lap as I flipped it closed to the cover; an image of Taylor Swift belting into a microphone in a blue sparkly gown, lights blinding all around her, a clearly photoshopped baby bump making an appearance on her stomach was pictured on it, and the words beside her read ‘She’s in denial: Jerry Springer—father’. However, after thoroughly reading the one half page that covered the headline inside, I found that Jerry Springer was, in fact, not the father of Taylor Swift’s supposed baby; he only ‘knew’ the father and swore that he would not tell a soul the individual’s name unless that certain individual wanted to present himself on his own terms.

Either way, I stood, tossed the magazine back onto the end table near my right side, and proceeded to walk up to the lady glaring at me from the doorframe across the room.

I really hope this is going to be less painful than my last casual outing, I said to her.

She stared at me and blew out another bubble.

It won’t, she stated, after it popped, and then spun around, whipping her long, dark brown ponytail at my face as she moved.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a short moment.

What a bad stock character she is.

Once I had taken a deep breath and flipped my eyelids open yet again, I began to follow after her, down the hallway ahead. I gazed around as we both walked, taking in the slightly shady surroundings. There was a falling poster featuring an image of Mike Myers dressed as the classic Austin Powers, flashing a yellow-toothed smile, with the caption ‘Gingivitis? NOT groovy, baby!’, a desktop covered in tapes of multicolored happy face stickers and tiny white packets of string floss, and at least six dying plants potted along the edges of the corridor floor. I also glanced into each room as we passed them; all were empty and open, though full of cluttered countertops and reclining rubber chairs.

Here, the girl guiding me directed once we reached the end the short walkway.

She stepped to the side and pointed into the last empty room as I twisted to peer inside. I picked up on surroundings almost identical to the other rooms we had passed, though an elderly-looking man in black pants, a dark blue shirt that buttoned down the side, and choppy white hair was currently spinning circles in a chair near the center of it.

"Doctor Herther!" the woman beside me yelled, making me jerk a tad under my skin.

The man abruptly quit spinning and hopped up, arms out, toward us.

"Hey, Maria!" he shouted, right before he attempted to step forward, failed, and stumbled to one side.

I crinkled my expression at him while he caught himself at his knees.

Dumb ass… the young lady beside me muttered, and then I turned to witness her step around me and back down the hall.

"Emilia…"

I glanced back at the old man to see him stand up straight and gaze right back at me, arms still outstretched.

Or… he went on, beginning to squint a bit. "Emily?"

I stared at him, unblinking, for a moment.

Oh, I eventually shot out, looking back and forth at the empty doorframe in front of myself. Um… I looked back at him and raised an index finger to myself. "Me?"

He nodded.

Maria, isn’t it?

He smiled.

I lowered my hand and stepped forward.

Oh, no, actually, I stated. It’s Emma.

He keeled over in laughter.

"No, really, he giggled, rubbing his stomach, before straightening out and calming down. That’s not your real name, dear."

I gave him a blank look.

But… I responded. "It… is my real name…"

He paused for a long second.

You’re certain?

I nodded.

Well, I think so, I said. At least, that’s what it says on my incarceration report at the county jail.

The man paused, again, and then raised his hands to his hips.

Such an informal name, he grumbled, then shook his head. You kids these days…

I raised my own hands to my sides.

My parents picked it, not me, I stated and slapped my hands down. "Or some other God-like deity, maybe, but, again… not my decision."

He shook his head, again.

Well, he started, and then turned to one side. "Anyway, time to get in the chair, Esmerelda."

I nodded at his back as he walked up to the cluttered counter against the left wall.

Right… I mumbled, and then twisted toward the reclining mechanical chair he had just mentioned. I walked over to it, looked over the tiny few spots of dried blood on its blue, rubber-coated headrest, took the time for a silent sigh, and then proceeded to both sit and slam the ends of my frizzy, mud-colored hair strands into it. So, um… I clasped my hands overtop my belly. How long have you been doing this?

Doing what? the man snapped back, right before an extremely loud clatter of heavy metal crashed to the ground behind me.

I squeezed my eyes shut in response.

This… I picked back up, once the noise subsided. "Profession?"

The klutzy man seemed to pause as I opened my eyes.

Longer than I’ve known you, dear, he answered.

I nodded at the white wall full of lopsided, completely empty picture frames in front of me, and the man began, I believe, to toss a number of somewhat light tools around atop the counter behind my plastic-covered chair.

And, uh, I raised my voice over him. What was your name, again? Not that I’m even sure you told me, but… I quieted my tone as he threw a larger, noisier object. I don’t really want to just refer to you as the clumsy man in the sketchy dentist office with constantly condescending demeanor.

It’s Billy, dear! he yelled over himself.

After a short moment, the room fell to near silence once more.

I leaned forward and to the side.

You mean, I began while I peered at him from the back of my chair. "Like William?"

I dropped my eyes from his glaring expression to the large tubular gas tank he held in his hands, one of which had a sizable puncture in its side and was currently emitting a visible amount of whatever type of possibly lethal air was contained within it.

No, dear. He regained my abruptly concerned attention. "Just Billy."

I looked quickly between him and the damaged gas container; I opened my mouth to respond to him, but he stopped me short.

Now, Billy started, taking a step toward me with the metal tank spilling whistling gas into the atmosphere around us. You might wanna get to breathin’ a little bit faster.

Wh… I began back, my eyes glued to the tank as he moved around to my frontside. "What?"

Take a puff, he commanded, pushing the gaping hole of it directly in front of my sinuses.

And, without much choice in the matter, I took that breath.

And then… well, things got a little weird.

Just like Pixie Stix, right? Billy asked as he kept the gas pouring into my face.

I blinked away a few watery tears as I studied his widening grin, and then attempted to speak back.

"P… Prick sticks?" I questioned, and then jumped under my skin at the volume of my own voice.

"But it could be warm ice cubes or coagulated Pixie Stix!"

I began to forcibly cough and jerked my hands up to cover my mouth; Billy leaned back with the gas before I hacked up my left lung.

"I… can’t go in here, this… this is jail! I can’t go to jail!"

I caught my breath and moved my hands from my mouth to my forehead.

Oh, no… I grumbled out.

My eyes slid from the brightening ceiling to Billy, who was currently ripping a faded yellow sticker from the bottom of the tank he held in front of my seat.

"Oh no is right…" he replied, raising his eyebrows before turning to the side.

I squinted at him.

"Miranda Lively, you know her? I'd be surprised if you didn’t…"

Billy dropped the gas; it crashed so loudly to the floor that I had to yank my upper body forward and scream out, though the phrase I shouted was probably not one anticipated by anyone in the room, myself included.

"Four-fifths of the cops in Wisconsin know her just by the shape of her crotch!"

Billy slowly twisted back to me, now completely silent. I immediately burst out laughing, and then threw my head against the back of the chair, where I squeezed my eyelids shut and allowed a snort or two to escape my grasp.

And then my mind began to wander.

Off to a lengthy scene explaining just how I managed to escape from the same prison that housed the criminally insane witch Miranda Lively as well as my former insane best male friend that attempted to, in my view, murder me on one occasion, Grayson Decker, as well as the seriously insane ninety-two year old woman who succeeded in kidnapping and holding me hostage in her moldy basement with a bucket and a bag of shredded lettuce whose name I do not know to this day and have no real desire to.

And cue the flashback.

You know, Emma, Stella began to me, staring at the collar of my jumpsuit. I don’t think orange is really your color.

I glared at her from across the table we sat at, a thick layer of plexiglass wedged in between us.

Well, they gave me the choice of lime green or neon yellow, too, you know, so that everyone looks like Tropical Starburst packaging when we line up. I paused. But I thought orange brought out the color of my eyes the best.

Well, Stella started back, shaking her head and ignoring my sarcastic tone. It doesn’t.

I sighed and drifted my eyes to the guard that stood in the closed doorway nearby Stella’s backside, watching Netflix on his phone, bulky headphones covering his ears—the same man, actually, that was ‘guarding’ my conversation with Grayson earlier that day, if you probably don’t recall.

Anyway, Stella regained my attention, and then leaned forward, cupped one hand beside her mouth, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Did they have to check your… undercarriage?"

I narrowed my eyebrows.

"My… what?"

You know what I mean! she soft-yelled before making odd gestures with her two hands; she bent her right wrist a crisp ninety degrees over her straight left, and then emitted a fake coughing sound.

Oh, god, I muttered, staring directly at her hands for a moment before flickering my eyes back up to her expression of anticipation. "Well, not yet…"

Stella widened the rims of her own eyes.

And, she went on. "Do you have, like… a roommate?"

I continued to stare at her.

"It’s called a… cellmate, I corrected. And… I stopped and, very unexpectedly, teared up. Y—Yes…"

And cue the flashback within the flashback.

I sloped down in the moistened wood bench that sat against the far wall of the cell the guard who had just discovered a bag of, apparently, dimethyltryptamine in my purse full of nothing else but packets of melted gum and half-wrapped feminine hygiene products after my meeting with my deranged and utterly lost once-friend, Grayson, who had previously tried to kill one of our peers and, I really do think, me, too, locked me in, and shook my head softly before dropping it into my sweaty palms.

I've hit rock bottom, I muttered out. There's nothing lower than me; not even my grandmother's rotting corpse in her decaying low-budget coffin. I paused. It actually couldn't possibly get any worse. 

And then, of course, I felt the swiftest of touches fall upon my left shoulder blade, then decided to both gasp and snap my head into the direction of the feeling to discover a wrinkly finger reaching out to me from behind a set of thin metal bars that separated my cell from the next one. On the other end of that finger, then, was none other than the elderly woman who kidnapped both Stella and I on one outing we took to the Dairy Queen by Green Lake and stowed us away in her basement for a long afternoon of terror.

"Erica!" she screeched.

I screamed out loud and jumped up to my feet, away from her arm’s reach.

"Erica, why did you leave me?" she began to cry.

"This isn’t happening," I cried back, soon after covering my mouth and walking over to the side of my cell opposite from her.

"Please come back to me!" she croaked out.

I grabbed at the bars facing the short empty space between me and the next vacant cell, and then screamed, again.

"Why do you… hate me, Erica?" the woman unnecessarily went on, now audibly crying behind my back.

I closed my eyes for a second, and then peered back at her from over my shoulder.

"Why do I hate you? I mumbled. Why do I hate you? I dropped my hands to my sides and turned completely toward her. Why do I hate you? I took one step in her direction. Why do I hate you? I paused and crumpled my hands into fists. Oh, I’ll tell you why I hate you, you… you antique abuse addict!"

The woman stood, still crying hysterically, still pressed against the bars that separated our two small cells, and still completely ignoring any word that I uttered either above or below my breath.

"I miss you!" she screamed at me.

I raised my fists to push into the sides of my waist.

"No, you don’t! I yelled back. You’re… I dropped my hands. Mentally unhinged and—"

"I’m so sorry, Erica… she cut me off, whining now more than anything. I shouldn’t have taken your… She stopped to wipe her nose, and then shook her body violently against the bars she held onto. Your Bratz dolls!"

I fell quiet and cocked my head to the side at her.

"They—They’re just… She tried to catch her breath between sobbing screams. So shoddy!"

I placed one hand over my chest and raised a brow at her.

"They turned you raunchy!" she pressed on.

I opened my mouth.

"Barbies would have… She took a breath. Never made you a harlot!"

I let out a dramatic gasp.

"How dare you insult the good name of the girls with a passion for fashion!" I shot at her.

"Barbies aren’t strumpets!" the woman shouted, her tears now finally beginning to dry.

"Barbies are tramps in training!" I replied.

"Barbies don’t make little girls streetwalkers!" she called back.

"Barbies turn little girls into grown-up mistresses for low-life husbands who cheat on their wives who know that they’re cheating but don’t act out on their instincts because they don’t want to give up the expensive and fine lifestyle that their banker-husbands’ families provide to them!"

Suddenly, the crazy old bat froze up, her hands still locked onto the bars in between our two close cells.

I glared at her for a moment.

And then, just as suddenly, her eyes rolled back into her head and her body collapsed to the concrete floor below.

I immediately dropped my expression and relaxed my fists.

"Um… I began, taking a second to look her unmoving body over in the crumpled posture it now lay in. I, uh…"

I gazed from her to the empty two cells across the hallway, and then back to her. After that, I decided to take a few cautious steps forward and kneel down at the bars a few inches away from her stiffened face. And, at the end of that journey, I reached one hand through the rusty poles and poked at the wrinkly skin next to her closed eyes.

"Well, I said when she didn’t respond. At least now she can rot away in the ground beside my grandmother instead of in here where taxpayer money is wasted on her room and board."

I proceeded to pull my hand back, but then the woman’s eyes shot open and one of her hands clawed my wrist back down; I screamed out yet again.

"You can never escape me, Erica!" she boomed out, cackling out alongside her words.

She pulled herself up to a sit as she scraped her fingernails deep into my skin.

"Ow!" I cried out, attempting now to push her hand back.

She continued to laugh hysterically while her nails began to actually draw blood from my veins.

"Get off! I screeched, prying her grip slowly off, though her claws dug even deeper as I pushed at them. I began to tear up, mostly involuntarily and out of pain, but also slightly from fear and genuine emotion. You have so many bacterial pathogens under those things and it’ll give me blood-born infections!"

Right then, I managed to slip her hand completely off of mine, and I instantly jumped both back and up to my feet as I wrapped my bleeding scratches with the bottom of my shirt.

"Hee-hee," the woman giggled.

I snapped my head up at her and took another step back while she rolled down, onto her back, and then onto her stomach.

"You’re so lucky to have me back, she went on. Erica… Erica… Erica!"

It’s… I wiped underneath my eyes with my fingertips. "Her…"

I glanced up at Stella as she glared back at me.

"I don’t know who Herb is," she claimed.

No— I leaned forward on my elbows. It’s the crazy old bitch that locked us in her basement and played her Britney Spears playlist on repeat!

Stella’s expression froze.

Oh, God… she mumbled, and then leaned forward, too. "You don’t have to share a… toilet with her, do you?"

I shook my head and pushed my fists against each other on the countertop.

I don’t know, I claimed. I’ve been holding in my mid-afternoon dump since I got here. I shook my head, again. And I’d rather get a UTI from holding pee in my own body than an STI from sharing half-ply with her.

Stella winced.

We’ve got to get you out of here… she started, and then nodded slightly. I think I know how to handle this.

She immediately stood, squeaking the feet of her chair back underneath herself. I cocked my head to my shoulder and stared up at her.

"Do you, though?" I questioned.

Stella reached into the pocket of her jet-black leather jacket and whipped out a pair of matching dark sunglasses. She pushed them up and over her nose, blankly glared at me from behind them for one split second, and then nodded once before turning away.

I sighed.

"Hey, Edna," some wave-formed voice spoke by my right ear.

I opened my eyes and was greeted back to the present by Billy from the sketchy dentist with the constantly condescending demeanor. He smiled and waved his hand a close inch away from my face.

"You don’t… feel anything… wrong… right now… would… I mean, do you?" he asked.

I took a long second to search his fuzzy face, and then attempted to push my tongue against the back of my teeth.

However, I felt as if I had no tongue.

And no teeth.

I lowered my eyebrows, made a tiny moaning sound, and flickered my eyes downward.

Okay, great, Billy shot out, snatching up the bottom of my chin.

I squinted my eyes as they came up to meet his face once more, and then watched as he brought the large, still leaking gas tin up and in between us, fogging my vision once more.

Oh, and bringing our flashback back into focus.

"And why did you have to dye your hair, Erica?"

I turned back to my next-door cellmate, my arms crossed and eyebrows narrowed.

"It looks terrible!" the wrinkly woman commented, grabbing at the rusty bars separating our two spaces.

I’m well aware, thank you, I snapped at her. But, again, Barbie dolls’ hair tends to get a lot rattier than this, so—

You looked a lot better blonde, the old hag stopped me short, and then, abruptly, pointed a broken fingernail out and toward the hallway behind me. "Like her."

I spun around on my heels, and then caught a glimpse of no one other than Stella Anderson making her way toward me, fully dressed in an orange prisoner jumpsuit, her hands tucked behind her back, her own pair of black sunglasses still resting upon her expression, and, of course, her outfit complete with a pair of sparkly, Tiffany-blue ballet flats and signature bouncy blonde curls flowing over her shoulders.

I squinted at her.

Um… I began.

She stepped in front of my jail cell, turned toward me, paused, then leaned forward slightly and whispered into my direction.

"Psst," she uttered.

I looked to the right, where the rest of the hallway and cells were still empty, and then to the left, where the elderly woman stood, her face physically pressed into the bars beside me, pushing the corners of her mouth back and showing off her decaying gum-line.

I glanced back at Stella.

Yes? I questioned.

She leaned back a tad, and then looked both ways before waving for me to step closer; I only half-rolled my eyes before complying.

Okay, she mumbled, once I approached close enough for her satisfaction. So, this is just a disguise…

Oh, you mean you didn’t actually get arrested for trading illegal seal skins or anything? I said.

No, Stella responded. I got this out of a janitor’s closet.

I paused.

"They keep extra inmate suits in the janitor’s closet? And not… extra janitor suits?"

I tilted my head at her.

"Well, they had custodian costumes, too, Stella replied. But, like, if I wore that one, then they might think I’m an actual maid, or whatever, and make me clean the toilets."

I pursed my lips.

"As opposed to wearing a prisoner uniform… and risking being mistaken for an actual prisoner, who, possibly, could be thrown into a lot worse conditions, forced to do much